


Shared time

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [117]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Implied Relationships, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29890869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Two works in progress that will not be finished that originated from one general idea.
Series: DS Extras [117]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 10





	1. act fast

Wilson had acted quickly the moment he had seen the two of them stumble into camp.

Well, it was more of Maxwell doing the stumbling, holding Webber as best as the old man could. Both looked awful, there was a hint of blood in the air, and the spider childs faint whimpering hisses had hit Wilson's ears faster than anything else and he had shot up from fiddling with the alchemy machine, scrambled around the moment he had caught sight of them, already rushing to drag out salves and poultices and what have you in the flush of worry and protectiveness that always seemed to overtake him whenever Webber showed distress of any sort.

With him being the only one in camp at the moment, it was all on him to dump everything by the low flickering campfire and get to Maxwell's side as quickly as possible.

"What happened?" Straight to the point, and he couldn't exactly waste time when his gaze went to Webber and immediately took note of their haggard appearance, sluggish and chirping low, faint spider sound from the base of their throat. Not all of their eyes were open, and those that were had a dull sheen to them, spidery limbs hanging limp and weak from their head and mandible laden mouth not even attempting to close up. Maxwell did not make any attempt to stop him from taking Webber from his arms, and Wilson easily bundled up their firm weight as best as he could.

"A rogue colony nearby took offense to Webber's friends." 

The spider child shivered as Maxwell spoke, twittering against Wilsons shoulder as their claws dug into him tightly, and they still trembled even as Wilson held them close, but it was obvious enough to note that, even with the clear fatigue, Webber was not injured. No purple blood soaked into his vest, and their sounds were not made from pain, only a sharp distress.

The old man, however, was not so lucky, swaying on his own two feet, and Wilson quickly got to his side, a slight nudge at his ribs with his elbow before Maxwell heavily leaned against him with a shaky exhale of a breath. The offset of weight wasn't enough to push him over, but Wilson wasn't planning to hold up the both of them for long, already guiding Maxwell into shuffling forward with him, towards the fire and the healing supplies. 

"Webber, there's a Queen in those nests, right? Most spiders avoid attacking when everything is established-"

"They had a Queen on their side too." Maxwell interrupted, and as Wilson got him nearby one of the log benches, prompting the old man to settle, his voice grew a bit more wheezed, strained. "It was a...messy fight."

The old man curled his arms about himself, huddled down as Wilson shifted Webber in his arms and got a log into the fire. They chirped at him as he did so, clung to him, but their relatively uninjured nature was relieving.

Maxwell, on the other hand, needed attention. 

"Webber," Wilson murmured quietly, gently unhooking their claws from his vest with his own bone talons, "I have to have both hands free right now, okay?"

They twittered, spidery sound as they shook their head, limbs twitching, but didn't fight him as he carefully set them down on the log bench. Their bristling mane of furs were up on end, hackles raised and only a few eyes still squinting open, and they shook their head again as they settled, pressed their claws to their face and trembled, and there was no blood but Wilson grimaced as he hovered over them, bone claws scraping together in nervous worry for a moment. 

Maxwells voice, still hoarse, broke through his thoughts however.

"They should be fine...soon enough." 

Wilson glanced over to him, the old man still huddled down, face twisted in abstract pain that he was failing to hide, but he seemed to have enough energy to raise a hand and wave limply at him, a gesture of some sort.

"The heart's effects will...leave them in a...little while."

There was definitely strain in there now, Wilson can hear the rough drag of it, but the mention of a heart had him checking over Webber one more time, careful as he brushed a hand over their head, those spider limbs waving and poking at his arm as he did so. Concern pulled on him now, reviving was never a pretty process, but at the very least it was fairly painless.

Still didn't help, knowing that Webber had died in the confrontation. He had questions that needed to be answered, and a fair bit of scolding, but a glance to the old man showed that now wasn't the time and Webber needed to be attended to in a different way than just bandaged up.

Wilson cursed himself and his luck that no one else was in camp but him, everyone off doing their own thing, whether that be gather supplies or hunting down resources, but his next best bet to make sure he had space to tend to Maxwell and keep Webber safe as the aftereffects of the telltale heart went its course was the simplest one.

"Alright, Webber, can you come with me for a moment?" They didn't answer right away, didn't do much but rock with their claws pressed to their face, still trembling, but at Wilsons gentle prodding he got them standing, gently guiding them towards his tent. "You need to rest for a little bit, okay?"

They pressed back against him when he opened the tent up, shook their head and chirped up low, stressed sounds, but Wilson just nudged them carefully inside, ducking his head into the stuffy warm darkness to make sure they settled.

Apparently the sight of the bedding and close walls set them at ease, and the spider child immediately burrowed down and curled up without any more prompting on his part.

"You're safe now, I'll check up on you in a little while." Time wasn't exactly on his side, for all he knew Maxwell could be bleeding out, but Wilson paused in the entrance for a last moment, chewing on his lip as he watched them slowly calm into quick sleep. "Goodnight, Webber."

A low, tired chirp of sound followed him out as answer, and then Wilson secured the tents entrance, took a deep, steadying breath, and turned himself around, mind focused once more.

Webber was fine, and he didn't have to worry. Sleep will dissolve the heart's nauseating side effects, and they'll be back to normal in the morning.

Pushing away the worry, forcing it down and contained, that rush of almost panic that had graced him earlier the moment he had thought Webber was hurt, Wilson hurried his way over to the fire.

Maxwell didn't react much as he got by his side, set the salves and bandages down as he crouched in front of the old man, then dropped to a kneel as his mind focused, brow drawn low and gaze already taking note of the blood spotting, the stains in clothing and curled in, pained expression that twisted the old man's hollow face. 

It didn't take much longer for him to note that Maxwell's sleeves were absolutely soaked in blood.

There was no fight as he carefully plucked at the sodden fabric, then gently rolled them up as he exposed the wounds, and the sight of those cuts made Wilson hiss a low sound and wince but he already knew where they came from and why.

Telltale hearts required a blood sacrifice, after all.

Didn't excuse just how deep some of them looked, or the rugged, haphazard way the shadow blade must have been turned to make such a damaging injury, and neither did it escape his notice the previous wounds of scars and damaged, half healed skin, but thinking of it for too long would open that spiral of faint fears and pity and Wilson did not have the time for that, not right now.

Probably not ever, really; there was too much history, too much of that bloated past, and he didn't think he could ever fully confront it, not in a way that would drain the simmering infection.

He didn't think Maxwell knew how to either, but, at the very least, Wilson knew how to patch up these types of surface injuries.

As he went about pasting the salve, relying on its properties to help clot and stop the bleeding before starting the bandages, taking note of the larger cuts that might require stitches later, Wilson took in a steadying breath of air, cleared his throat as he focused.

"There must have been a lot of spiders, if Webber's colony had gotten overrun, but you are both still alive so…"

He left his question open, a minute or so of silence in between them as Maxwells face twisted into a gritted, painfilled snarl, but once he got one arm fully bandaged tight, only a faint hint of spotting gracing the refined silk, the old man heaved a weak exhale and answered him back.

"I had enough fuel for a duelist. More than enough for...for what we had to deal with."

"Only one? I thought you spent weeks down in the ruins collecting a surplus, shouldn't you have-"

"I only had enough for one." Maxwell repeated, eyes still shit tight, but that tense snarl had twisted with a new feeling, a new aura of something almost akin to guilt. "The rest has already been...been used up."

Wilson opened his mouth, just about ready to start harping on the overuse, questioning on just _how_ that much nightmare fuel could just up and be gone that quickly, but then Maxwell made a hissing gasp of pain, clamping his jagged mouth shut and curling in on himself as Wilson's hands rubbed salve into his other wounded arm, and his focus shifted in keeping a grip to the old man's arm and keeping it held out. The cuts here were worse, dug deep, and even with his own claws dulled down Wilson had to take a moment to slow down, work with a bit more care.

His brow furrowed as the blood flow slowed enough for him to start the bandage wrapping, a lump in his throat as he recognized the need for stitches later, but he didn't bring it up.

Telltale hearts required the blood, but one didn't need to slit both wrists for that.

Maxwell was still curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and jaw bared in a snarl, but when Wilson finished up with the bandages he didn't waste time in easing his hands up into prodding the old man to sit up straighter. Got a whistling raspy whimper for his efforts, but Maxwell didn't struggle as Wilson focused on examining him more thoroughly, dull bone claws careful and firm as he started to pinpoint more injuries.

There was a lot of bruising, the old man must have been flung around a bit by that enemy Spider Queen, but then his claws came away with fresh blood and Wilson had to quickly push and roll up that worn old shirt, brush the suit jacket out of the way and lay his palms against the gash that he found on Maxwell's side. Not teeth, probably a lashing out taloned leg, and it wasn't deep just a grazing blow but feeling around the broken skin got him those rasping attempts to muffle faint cries and Maxwell was going to be feeling the effects of that fight for quite awhile.

As he worked, turning to the honey poultice for the bigger wounds, then back to salve when he found the deep bite just below the old man's left knee, the quiet of the air settled low, only the firepit crackling to itself as dusk settled over the camp. Wilson idly hoped the others would be back soon; he didn't like tending to someone entirely alone, and with Webber here, even in a tent sleeping, he still worried. If something assaulted camp, he would be the only one well enough to fight, and then he'd need to keep these two safe in the process.

The hounds still had a few days left, he knew, but one thing about the Constant he has learned is to be ready for anything. Becoming complacent, unwilling to recognize the need to start over again at a moment's notice, made life here much, much more difficult.

"...You should tend to Webber."

Maxwell's voice broke Wilson from his focus, slowing as he wrapped the older man's leg in more bandage, and by now he looked quite roughened up, dreadfully pale and wretched, but his eyes had opened and that dull, pitch black gaze slid sluggishly to land on him. 

"They're fine, Max, I put them to bed. I'm not done with you."

Maxwell heaved a rattling sigh, shoulders twitching before falling, and he shook his head with a sway that indicated lost balance, enough for Wilson to finish up and stand, put a hand to his shoulder and hopefully give some balance to the old man. 

"Earlier, when they...when they had fallen." Maxwell waved a hand in a limp gesture, a roll as he sucked in a weak hiss of a breath, still finding difficulty in breathing that made Wilson's eyes sharpen, wanting to check his chest over one more time, "When I had...brought them back, it was...not pretty."

Wilson was already leaned down again, brushing his clawed hands about the old man's stark bony ribs, minding the sodden fabric and clothing as best as he could, he should probably get Maxwell to take that stuff off-

"The hearts don't...react well when I make them."

He stilled, for a second, mind turning on that bit of information, but then Wilson prodded a certain sensitive spot and the old man tensed up with a choked whimper. There was no blood, but the swollen heat and quickening of pain filled breaths alerted Wilson enough and he was already guiding Maxwell to shrugging off his jacket entirely.

"Webber will be fine, Max. It will wear off like it usually does, don't worry." There was a bit of resistance as Wilson worked on the old man's shirt, but Maxwell was still weak as he went about shedding the clothing that was in the way of the injury. "I'm more concerned about what you've done to yourself."

"I didn't do anything, it was...was the spiders-"

"The spiders, yes, I know." Wilson brushed away the old man's hands as he tried to argue with him, familiar enough with the layers of fabrics to know how to get them off Maxwell, and while there was a certain amount of hostility rising on the old man's face Wilson had more pressing thoughts in mind.

There was definitely bruising there, warm to the touch and making Maxwell hiss out those hastened breaths of masked pain, but there was no sign of torn skin and only the vaguest pressure of a lump, not anything too extreme, so it helped ease down Wilsons attentiveness a good bit as he recognized it wasn't severe.

"You're either bruised, or you have a broken rib." That made Maxwell's face curl, still thick with pain, but Wilson just shook his head at his own faint relief. "I don't think it's bad enough to puncture anything, so be glad it's only that."

"I won't...be glad of anything until I'm...sufficiently _decent."_

For all of his injuries, there was a bite in Maxwell's words as he finally snagged his blood soaked jacket back, shivering as he pulled it back on with almost as little care as possible for the bandages Wilson had put into place. It made him frown, but Wilson shrugged it off, not letting it stop him from helping as the old man struggled for a moment. The rest of his clothing was stained with blood, drying thick and crimson blackened, and the mending on his wrists were starting to spot the more he moved, so Wilson made a split second decision.

"I want you to head to bed as well, Max. Rest should help with your ribs, and when I change your bandages later I can see if anything needs stitching-"

"I don't need anymore aid, Higgsbury." The snap startled Wilson a moment, blinking as he leaned back and watched the old man struggle to a stand, clutching his jacket close and sneering at nothing and everything, eyes squinted from pain. "I will be fine. Go tend to Webber."

He said it so dismissively, a sluggish wave of his hand as he swayed a bit on his own two feet, and Wilson stood up as well, frown curling into a scowl as he watched Maxwell stagger forward.

And then he rolled his eyes, forced down his irritation, he knew well enough what pain can do to people, especially when it was constant and unwilling to fade, and got himself by the old man's side. He could feel Maxwell tense up, can guess what words were on his snarling lips, but that didn't stop him from grabbing one of his arms and lightly guiding the man into leaning against him for balance.

"I said I-"

"You'll be fine, I know. I'll help you get to your tent."

His short tone, lacking any of the mocking he was sure Maxwell was expecting, seemed to quiet the old man enough to go along with him.


	2. Pain Sacrifice

It was understandable, how encompassing pain could be. 

Before all this, before the Throne, before the very Constant, pain had been something to avoid. William had fled any such mentions of it, alert for the threat it always brought along; there were things out there worse than death, and his unlucky pitiful little life has met a fair few of them. 

Maxwell, however, has sat upon the Throne, listened to the heartbeat of the Constants lifeblood and understood the ingrained connection of how this shadowy world worked, how it breathed and ate and grew fat off of a suffering no mortal should have to be exposed to.

Faced with such things, growing to recognize them, understand, _thrive_ off it all, has made the threat of pain diminish significantly.

Oftentimes Maxwell found himself wondering what William would have done, had he known pain as the insignificant little thing it always was, a discomfort that could not be shaken off, only endured till it, or he, faded away. Who would he have become then? Someone better?

Or someone worse, fouler than even Maxwell himself?

It did not matter, these thoughts, not anymore. Pondering the past was such a waste, and yet he found himself doing it far too often anyway. A curse in of itself, and one he knew not whether to blame the Throne or faint memories of who he had once been; if it was William's fault, then perhaps it gave him a bit of relief, shifting the blame.

All on him, of course, yet splitting his lifetime helped to some degree. He was Maxwell and had always been Maxwell, even long before William, but...it eased the mind somewhat, pretending otherwise. Charlie had known William, after all, but had found Maxwell of much better company. 

...He supposed, now off the Throne and stuck in this place, a world of his making twisting and changing by someone else's whims, that everyone else would much prefer William's pitiful personality nowadays. 

Very little wished for his company as he was now. He didn't blame them, not anymore.

As foul as Maxwell was compared to his past existence of William, at the very least pain had less control over him now. He can endure far worse, having been exposed to all flavors of it, _indulged_ in every which way the Throne allowed of him, torturer and sufferer both, and as such the pain never truly touched him as much as it used to.

Of course, pain was just one part of the whole; injury, loss of blood or limb or mind, was not extinguished or forgotten, no matter the numbness.

Which, he supposed, was why he was where he was now, seated in the pitiful excuse of a medical tent, eyes half closed as he weathered those faint waves of half remembered agony, the unfazed tide that lapped at him yet never fully numbed out, never allowed him shock enough to ignore it outright.

The pain was just a background ache, but his sleeves were soaked in blood, trouser leg going sodden as the fabric colored dark crimson, almost blackened with his foul life force. 

The tents air was stuffy, even with the door cracked open a bit, and he could smell his own stinking blood, the sharper scents of salves and the general odor of humanity brought down to its lowest as it either endured its own sickly pains or crumbled underneath, to leave behind a bloated corpse in response. 

The dead did not invade this small space, bodies buried in marked graves and ghastly spirits risen once more elsewhere, yet their stench still stuck, ingrained to the makeshift cot and its thinning, stained covers, the very dirt and ground the tent itself sat upon. 

Maxwell cracked open his eyes as noise scattered his thoughts, the shuffle of bandages being bundled together, the sharper clinking of experimental tinctures, stored salves and poultices, wrapped medicines and herbal remedies alike as he waited out, through the rugged tides of ever constant pain.

If he had been a lesser man, then perhaps shock would have knocked him low earlier. A part of him was resentful for missing such an option, but then Maxwell slowly, achingly crossed his arms in his lap, shoulders falling low as he grit his jaw, and it _hurt_ but not ever as much as he knew it should. 

The light headedness was coming around, at the very least; perhaps he'll faint. Perhaps this would be enough to off him, though he greatly doubted it; he had been able to stumble his way back to camp like this, after all, and with a child in his arms to boot. Webber, thankfully, was no longer injured after a hasty revival, though that could not be said for their little spider colony of friends, nor the invading army of unruly arachnids. 

Such wars were not uncommon, but Webber had always been good negotiating peace between colonies. Of course one of the few times it did not work Maxwell had to be caught in the thick of it.

And of course Webber had gone down under swarming invading warriors, bigger and thicker and meaner than the child's protective friends.

Of course Maxwell had to wrangle their disorientated spirit back into following him, had to messily tear glands out of fallen spiders as the war continued in its chaos, dodging spiders and the flailing Spider Queens before finally crafting the telltale heart.

And then having to chase after a playful, somewhat confused ghost before finally having the offered heart be accepted, finally having Webber flop down into the grass beside him, breathing and alive once again.

It was later, as he stumbled and tripped his way towards camp, that Maxwell internally scolded himself in such a rash reaction. The spider child had clung to him, clicking and chittering up weak calls of confusion and faint pains, and it didn't take long for him to realize _why._

The former Nightmare King did not make telltale hearts for a very good reason, and when Webber gurgled out a few rough coughs against his shoulder, pulling back to spit out blackened thick strands of spit and saliva, Maxwell knew he had made a mistake. 

It would pass, of course, get through their system in a day or so, fever chills and vomiting up what the heart had inadvertently given them, but that hadn't eased up the worry that had crested Wilson's face the first moment he had caught sight of them when passing through the camps gated walls.

The other man had immediately taken Webber, voice rough with concern and that rather troublesome tint of fatherly over protectiveness, but Maxwell had enough in him to assure of their safety, wave away the worries, assure that Webber will be fine in the morning.

And then had stumbled his way to the log bench at the low fire, collapsed down upon it as the world grew thin and pale and numbing, and the pain pulsed through him in its horrid background ambience but all Maxwell could do was curl himself up, close his eyes, and endure.

It didn't _hurt_ , not really, but it was encompassing and heavy and just too much to recognize, to name. He hadn't escaped that little spider war unscathed, after all, not to mention what he had to do to create the heart.

Telltale hearts required blood sacrifices, after all.

Eventually someone kicked up a fuss at the puddle of blood growing about his feet, Wilson finally passing Webber off to someone else to keep distracted in their feverish haze of disorientation, prodding him up and aware enough to guide towards the med tent, and Maxwell had sluggishly responded, almost fell over twice, before finally ending up right were he was now.

Idly his gloved claws picked at the poor excuse of bedding the crooked cot had; it was already dampening with his blood, stains overlaying far older stains, and after a moment the energy left him and his hands stilled in his lap, limp and heaving out a strained exhale of air. The shivering was new, starting low in his spine and then reaching his shoulders, undoubtedly leaving a tremor in his hands, but eventually that too will pass.

Blood loss could just never kill him quick enough, could it?

His spiraling thoughts scattered, like the evening light outside as the pale shadows of the tent grew in strength, brought on as Wilson's presence suddenly seemed to solidify more firmly in front of him. The man set aside a few things to the cot, a faint flash of an expression on his face as he took note of the pooling blood Maxwell had inadvertently spilled, but that quickly hardened and grew focused, firm as bone talons settled to Maxwell's shoulders.

"Alright, I think we have enough supplies, though I would be happier if we had more honey poultices." Wilson firmly adjusted Maxwell a bit, nudged him to scoot up a bit straighter, carefully uncrossing the old man's blood soaked arms. "The tillweed salves should help, almost have a full chest of them."

Maxwell just nodded his head, sluggish and feeling cold, pins and needles in his hands now, creeping up his wrists and arms, and only squinted his eyes open for a brief, dizzy moment to acknowledge that Wilson was rolling up his suits sodden sleeves.

The sight underneath had him look away, eyes falling shut to the static grey instead of that expression that flashed on the other mans face, the one that made his stomach curdle and jaw grit tight, and a part of him almost flared up to pull back, shrug off the man's help, he can do it fine on his own-

But Wilson pulled his arms out firmly, free hand snatching up the bandages he had set nearby, and his face was very serious. 

"This was from the heart, right?" His tone didn't seem to be one needing an answer, and Maxwell hissed, tensed at the flare up of sudden agonizing discomfort, the rugged brush of silk fabrics, thickly pasted with herbal salve, to raw skin.

Wilson's eyes flicked up to look at him from the sound, the sudden wave of shivering as Maxwell forced himself to keep still, endure the pain as firm pressure was wrapped about his arms, wrists, firm and weighted and sending wandering shadowy displeasure through his mind, faint afterimage memories, of binding and entrapment, of what he had once done to try and forget such things.

And then his thought train of inner will flagged when a clammy palm suddenly pressed to his cheek, eyes flashing open as Wilson leaned back to look at him.

"This is just to stop the bloodflow, okay?" Still that serious voice, no room for arguing though at this point Maxwell was unsure if he had the energy to do so, and Wilson's dull clawed hand fell to his shoulder, a faint squeeze and then a firm shake. "I'll take them off in a bit."

A pause, as Maxwell hissed in his shuddering breaths, the shudders not just from pain or shock response, risen memory making him swallow fitfully, gloved hands clenching into fists, fighting the urge to scrub and rip apart what had ensnared his wrists, his arms, knowing full well that it wouldn't do him any good either way-

Then clawed hands folded over his fists, surprise loosening his fingers enough for those claws to easily clasp with his hands, and Wilson nodded his head.

For a moment, the serious, focused look eased up for a softer, pitying expression instead.

"Don't think about it." He said, quietly, a murmur as he squeezed Maxwell's hands together with his for a mere moment. "Focus on me, alright?"

Maxwell blinked, drawn aback a moment, memory and discomfort shifting ever so slightly, and those dull claws curled tight with his own gloved talons for a few more brief seconds, Wilson giving him an unreadable look.

And then Wilson turned to the supplies he had on hand, mind already focused elsewhere. Maxwell had to suck in a shuddering breath of thin air, the thing in his chest that might be his heart throbbing uncomfortably as a wash of light headedness graced him, as his shoulders fell and the cold started to slip even more strongly in.

But foul memories had a harder time creeping in, creeping to his bound wrists, already spotting with dark blood; Wilson had left one hand in Maxwells grip, held firmly together, and the clammy faint warmth, the even fainter, if Maxwell closed his eyes and concentrated, even quieter heat of the man's pulse.

For a brief, dizzying moment, hissing out the pain as it tried to overrun him, as the almost touchable memory of the Throne tried to ensnare him once more, Maxwell wondered if he even had such a thing anymore.

A pulse, a heartbeat, and he had to close his eyes as the colors inside the tent smeared a sickening gray, losing balance a bit as his thoughts started to slow, scatter even more so, replaced with ambient continual pains.

But Wilson squeezed his hand, jolted him back as the man snatched up what he was looking for, and then untangled his grip to kneel down and roll up Maxwell's trouser legging.

The wound there wasn't as bad, Maxwell knew, he had been able to walk on it, travel, escape from violently angry arachnids. There was the faint discomfort of sodden, torn fabric being peeled away from the wound, and he looked away as Wilson tsked out a strained, displeased sound, but in the end he only winced once when the salve coated bandages were pushed into place, then wrapped about his leg, from upper ankle to lower calf.

"You should be glad whatever bit you didn't bite higher." Wilson was focused, voice firm as he finished up the bandaging. "Getting hamstrung by spiders is not a pretty way to go."

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Maxwell huffed, not quite enough in him to roll his eyes, and by now the tillweed was doing its job; the slow throbbing agony in his leg had been overtaken by a deep, chilly numbing instead, a cold burn to treat the wound. The statement had been off the top of his head, the other mans words bringing up faded old memories, the quiet shadows that kept him from itching at his wrapped wrists whispering with a bit more attunement now as he swayed a bit, exhaustion mixing foul with the pain, but all Wilson did was pause for a brief moment.

Then a clammy warm palm was being pressed to his face, to his cheek before suddenly switching to his forehead, and the other man had stood up, that steely focus unperturbed.

"Yes, yes I do. Glad it didn't happen to you." 

Those hands moved again, this time goading him into removing his jacket, and even under the slow numbing effects of both blood loss, shock, and the salves healing properties Maxwell did not let it go without a struggle. Not enough to cause trouble for Wilson, but enough that his voice hardened a bit as he finally pulled Maxwell's arms out from the sleeves, going gentle when the bandages had to be paid attention to. 

"Webber wouldn't have made it back if it had."

Ah, well, there that was. Maxwell let his eyes close, not bothering to try and grab his jacket back as Wilson dumped its blood sodden, torn up mess aside.

That was all it ever was, wasn't it.

**Author's Note:**

> A part of me wanted to pick one of these and finish it, but I...don't exactly have enough in me to do so anymore, so they are as is.


End file.
